


All Around the Mulberry Bush

by a tattered rose (atr)



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 20:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13302567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atr/pseuds/a%20tattered%20rose
Summary: "All around the mulberry bush / The monkey chased the weasel / The monkey thought that it was a joke / Pop! goes the weasel."Derek has a drunk walkabout. Tag for The Producers





	1. Eileen

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - This story dedicated to marieYOTZ, who in all non-violent senses of the word, played muse. I will post the five brilliant things she said at the end of the last chapter.
> 
> ~*
> 
> _Now I'm walking again to the beat of a drum / And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart / Only the shadows ahead barely clearing the roof / Get to know the feeling of liberation and relief_ \- Crowded House, "Don't Dream It's Over"

If he wasn't drunk when he arrived, he was by the time she did.

  
  


"Derek."

  
  


He raised his glass – probably vertically – towards her voice. "And a lovely evening to you too."

  
  


"I don't normally allow unsolicited pitches before lunch, you know that."

  
  


"Why said I was here to beg?" He pushed himself upright, on the third try. He knew. He'd thought he did. "I wanted to congratulate you."

  
  


"And here I was thinking that if you wanted to toast, you would have chosen a more convenient hour."

  
  


Eileen had situated herself behind her desk. He made his unsteady way closer, trying to read her face. Her tone. But there were too many of her. He gave up.

  
  


"Tom's a bit inexperienced."

  
  


"Yet more successful, it would appear. He managed to get us to Broadway." Icy.

  
  


Cold. "Yes." Not right, never right. "And Ivy-"

  
  


"-Is none of your concern." She wasn't. She was.

  
  


"-Is wonderful," he finished, gesturing too incautiously with his glass.

  
  


Silence. She was staring. Evaluating him. Eileen. He fell into a chair. It had all gone wrong. With him. Without him, they were fine. "I never thought she couldn't do it," and it wasn't a lie but it was, because what he'd watched on stage hadn't been what he'd always seen in his head.

  
  


"Stay away from her, Derek," with all the quiet force of, of _Eileen_ , the tone that made him sit down and shut up and plot a way around without explicitly contravening her order. Except he believed what he believed.

  
  


"It's too late anyway." And that was bitter and bitter was right but it was his fault not hers and words echo ghost of her hand on his throat and if he'd listened and obeyed then then maybe... Maybe he wouldn't be here now.

  
  


He shouldn't and she'd judge him for it but he swigged the rest of his drink she hadn't offered and left the empty glass somewhere on her desk.

  
  


When she spoke again, it was more gentle than he deserved. "You have Hit List. Karen. You may not be taking them to Broadway this year but you'll find something else."

  
  


"I don't _want_ something else" he exploded, with a violence that surprised him too, uncomfortably aware he was charging her with repetition she wasn't guilty of. "I want-" but what he wanted wasn't something he could get. "You know Hit List is good. Someone should have signed on."

  
  


"Broadway is a tough business." A pause. "You know that. Disappointments happen every day. We get used to that, if we want to last."

  
  


He did know that. Rarely accepted it, but knew it. They all knew that. All except-

  
  


"It's good."

  
  


She'd never had the chance to learn. He'd made sure of that.

  
  


Papers hit the desk. He could hear them, feel them. He opened his eyes to a tilting world.

  
  


"If there's nothing else, I have work to do." Pointed, even without looking at him. Kind, even without a smile. Businesswoman. Friend. Those were in short supply, nowadays.

  
  


"I don't know what to do?" That was as honest as he knew how to be.

  
  


The silence stretched.

  
  


"Perhaps you should tell her that."

  
  


And he didn't know if she knew, what she knew, everything probably, this was Eileen and she could play her cards at her vest as well as any of them. He searched for a hint. "What if she won't listen?"

  
  


"Then," she remarked, opening a folder in a final sort of way, "you either fight for her or you let her move on. It's a common misconception, I find." Now there was a smile, directed into the distance.

  
  


"Women like the romantic gesture, but they prefer the respect." Whatever the thought was, it passed.

  
  


"Actresses are a dime a dozen, in this town. As are directors."

 


	2. Julia

He found himself in the theatre less because he wanted to be there, and more because he didn't have anywhere else to be. His apartment. But he didn't want to go there.

  
  


"Early start to the day?"

  
  


Julia glanced up, pen still poised. "I had an idea about the suicide attempt scene. I thought it might help to write in the space."

  
  


He'd watched her, during Bombshell. Her new calm annoyed him, without reason, even though her work had been brilliant and there was no reason for her to be helping them here.

  
  


There was no obvious reply. She didn't have to be here but she was, a sense of obligation melding with a surity of purpose.

  
  


"Yeah, well, you might as well take the day off." They should all take the day off. "This show isn't going anywhere."

  
  


"Just because it isn't going to Broadway doesn't mean it's a failure. You know that."

  
  


Countless examples were at his fingertips. A few were even his. But none of them counted. If you weren't on top you were a moment from the bottom, forgotten. She knew that. She knew a lot of things. He'd always liked her. Not just to spite Tom.

  
  


The seat next to hers was reassuringly firm. Solid.

  
  


"You and Michael Swift..." He hesitated.

  
  


"Yes?" Her voice was high and tight. But he wasn't about to judge them, he'd never particularly cared enough to even form an opinion, at least until they'd gotten in his way.

  
  


"How did you get over him?"

  
  


The tapping of her pen felt, at least, like she was taking the question seriously.

  
  


"I haven't." She paused, he waited. "But that was different. We met so long ago – And what we did wasn't right. We didn't have the right to do what we did." Wrong. Right. Morality had never been his strong suit. "She's young... It might work out, if you wait."

  
  


He didn't want to wait. "But you knew how he felt."

  
  


"That didn't make it any easier."

  
  


It would make everything easier. It was the not knowings, the inviting him closer one day and pushing him aside the next which stung. She'd never said- he'd tried to ask but she'd never said, one way or the other-

  
  


"What if you'd never known. How he felt?"

  
  


Side by side, they stared at the staircase to nothing.

  
  


"You know what? I'm not entirely sure it would have mattered. Because I still felt the way I did about him. But then I'd always have regretted not taking the chance. Instead of regretting it was never going to work out."

  
  


"You never know," the words felt cliché, but things are cliches for a reason: "things may change."

 


	3. Sam

He hid in the back with a magazine, his thoughts, and a bottle of bourbon. He was going over choreography in case anyone asked.

 

"Derek?"  
  


An unread page slipped through his fingers.

 

"Sam? What are you doing here?"

 

"You asked me to come in early to run some of Jesse's scenes."

 

Right. Jesse. No Karen, not yet. He'd have to face her. But not yet.

 

"Right. Julia's in charge of rehearsal today." It wasn't hard. Hit the right marks, remember the lines.

 

"Are you okay?" The couch depressed next to him.

 

"Fine."

 

"Look."

 

And he liked Sam, he did. Ensemble members were cogs like everyone else, no better, no worse, and he'd have no objections to the swap when Jimmy self-combusted.

 

"Look, Derek. I know we're not friends or anything," that word again, "but if you wanted to, you know … talk... I wouldn't spread it around or anything."

 

"And what makes you think I want to talk?"

 

"Well, for one thing, you're drunk."

 

He had to laugh at that, hard burst against burst of blunt truth.

 

"What's the ensemble saying?" It had never really mattered to him. He had a pretty good idea, he'd heard snippets and nicknames over the years and it was flattering, if anything. So long as they respected him, feared him a little he could do his job and they'd do theirs. The chatter was unavoidable collateral. Nothing ruined a director faster than caring about being liked.

 

Sam leaned back, and he had to respect that too. Truth tended to require more deliberation than a glossy lie. That was why he liked him, he realized, more than being a solid hire and the obligation stemming from his friendship with Ivy.

 

"Mostly, lately, it's how the great Derek Wills has finally been whipped."

 

"I haven't." Too fast.

 

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger. Some of the things Karen's been saying, that's not helping."

 

"And Ivy?"

 

Sam shrugged, fabric against fabric. "Nobody here's really talking about her, and she hasn't said anything to me."

 

That stung. He'd clued in, of course, that Ivy didn't want to be seen with him in public. It had not occurred to him that she didn't want _anyone_ to know. That they... _If_ they... If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one around to hear it?

 

"And it's not like people haven't asked. With the way things went down, in Boston. She really liked you, and don't get me wrong, I'm with her. And then of course with it being Karen..."

 

"Karen's special." A defensive statement which sounded wrong the moment he said it, flat, played over and over until the needle wore a groove. Ivy was special, in so many ways, only not the same, in a way he couldn't touch even when he thought he knew.

 

"Not saying she isn't. But that doesn't mean Ivy didn't get hurt."

 

It didn't mean a _lot_ of things, and with a violent sweep he pitched the magazine across the room where it landed, broken, on the floor.

 

"I didn't mean for any of it to happen."

 

Sam was unfazed by the outburst. "In my experience, people usually don't."

 

And that was it. Final judgment from the person likely as anyone to know what he was talking about. Derek took another swig from his bottle.

 

Sam shifted forwards, poising his weight for a shift. "If I said something, it'd just be what I think."

 

He nodded.

 

"It's not like Ivy ever said a lot about your guys' relationship, I just see what I see, and I've known Ivy a long time." He stood up, smooth motion towards the door. "Ivy doesn't give up on people she cares about. Not easily. That's why we don't give up on her. If you care about her at all, you should figure out what you're doing." He was in the hall, head poking back in for a final line. "I don't like seeing anyone get hurt, not more than they are."

 


	4. Tom

"Fantastic. Just the person I wanted to see."

 

Tom ignored him, slipping into the other side of the booth. The perils of having regular haunts.

 

"Are you... drunk?"

 

"Did you want something in particular? Or did you pop by to state the obvious?"

 

"I heard Hit List is having a show on Monday."

 

"Stating the obvious it is." Even with Broadway out of reach, Julia was right. They had to finish previews and even a run, probably short. Buzz was good enough they'd do well, but Scott would need the space and they didn't have another. Everyone needed a Hit.

 

"You need to invite Ivy. She'll never go otherwise, I've tried. And she needs to see what you- she needs to see it." Tom signaled a waiter.

 

"And what makes you think she'd take it from me?"

 

"I think you owe her that much, don't you?" There was an edge to his voice. He brought it out in Tom. Once upon a time he'd thought it pleasant. When they were working.

 

"She doesn't want anything from me." But Tom was right, she deserved better than she'd got.

 

A matching drink landed on the table, and over which Tom eyed him. "What did you do now?"

 

He was sick of always being the bad guy. There were some things that were outside even his control. "You're the one who wants to put her-"

 

"You're the one who brought Karen to Bombshell's opening night." Accusing.

 

"I didn't invite her."

 

"We didn't think she'd come," Tom hissed, "and you did bring her in to Ronnie's concert."

 

And Tom had brought in Ivy. A decision which, in the end, proved better, for Ronnie. Or it was a wash. Karen had been the one to bring in the Showstopping Song. Ivy made sure it happened. Or Ivy almost prevented the inevitable. And Karen, push push pushing through the whole thing.

 

He sighed, relaxed his grip. "I didn't do anything. Clearly Ivy wants to move on. Maybe you should let her."

 

Tom tapped the rim of his untouched glass. "Here I was, thinking you were really starting to grow up. By your standards. Ivy is an adult, why can't you let her make up her own mind?"

 

There were retorts. He chose to set those aside. "She did." Controlled measured voice but the muscles in his arm betrayed him, glass hitting table hard enough to draw attention.

 

"You were at the party. She's forgiven Karen. I wouldn't cast them in the same play but is there, honestly, any way she could have handled that with more class?"

 

Karen. Always Karen. Truth told, he did want Ivy to see the show. Wanted her to tell him it was good, pick out all the places it was great and poke at all the parts he knew were weak. And he'd huff and she'd smirk and whisper that she'd told him all along... And that hurt. "It's not about Karen."

 

"Isn't it?"  
  


The lights hurt his eyes.

 

Tom threw some bills down on the table. "I never wanted you for Bombshell."

 

"Yes, I know. You've always made that perfectly clear."

 

"Not just because of our history. Because you never understood Marilyn. What's worse, I don't think you ever really wanted to."

 

"And you've met her, have you? Gone to a séance and become sisters?" His glass was empty again. One more. He took Tom's.

 

"Maybe I have." Barely outside his line of vision, Tom's hand rested on his shoulder. "Marilyn was a lot of things to a lot of people. One way or another, they all used her, lied to her, and you know what? She did some using and some lying back. I think with all that, she was just searching for a little honesty."

 


	5. Leigh

"You know, in my experience, ex-directors don't tend to haunt the the theatre. At least not when they're still alive."

 

A voice so distinct, lilting and confident, so familiar from a dozen shows he'd seen when he was younger and starting his own career. "Miss Conroy." He moved to kiss her ready hand, her expected due, in overly swooping gesture.

 

"I came early to work with my daughter- my little show daughter," she corrected with a laugh. "Ivy won't be here for hours yet."

 

"What makes you think I'm not here to congratulate you on a spectacular return to the stage?" He didn't know why he was there, not really. A place Ivy would be, at a time she couldn't be. She was hosting some sort of awards, children were involved. Searching to not find, unless... If she'd found him. Maybe that would be it.

 

There were boxes and crates scattered- the stage hands liked to smoke when they had a few minutes. Choreographed down to the second, onstage and off. Leigh perched herself on one, incongruous yet natural, theatre – real theatre – in her blood.

 

"I had an affair once, you know," as if a natural statement to make.

 

He sat opposite, made a noncommittal noise. There were always rumours. He never cared. Not unless it affected his work.

 

"I've told enough stories, what's one more? He was my Director," the titled inflected in a certain way, her eyes unfocused rosebud smile fleeting. "Ivy must have been 8? 9? She caught us. _I_ thought she was asleep, of course, of I would never. But when I saw him off there she was, great big eyes and little arms crossed over her chest. I don't think she ever forgave me for that. And I _never_ cheated on her father again." Her fingers stroked her bag. "Not even when things were hard."

 

His eyes fell lower, the precise cross of her ankles.

 

"Whatever you may think, I do love my daughter."

 

Not that it could possibly matter what he thought, but that one, helplessly vulnerable shrug – had she'd known they'd had an audience? Ivy hadn't, he was sure. Would it have mattered to her? It would have, to Ivy. "I never doubted it for an instant." Love was many things. When it came to family.

 

"I would never presume to insert myself into her personal life, but I've seen the way you look at her."

 

There was a just-in-case bottle in his pocket. He fished for it. "And how is that?" His breath was frozen.

 

"Not like my director looked at me."

 

"Well, I'm not her director anymore." The cap was tricky, all he had in him was irritation.

 

She held out her hand. "We didn't see each other after the show went up. We wouldn't have, anyway." For her, the cap was a mere twist, and she took a slightly-more-than-ladylike sip. "All we had was the show."

 

He'd been hoping they could substitute "any show." He still knew Bombshell. She could pretend to care about Hit List. Liquid filled his mouth and his throat didn't even tingle.

 

Her chuckle was startling. "Who would have thought, the Great Derek Wills slumming in alleys with a washed up actress like me?"

 

Flirtatious, non-consequential, safe ground. "You're not-"

 

"I told her to keep you if she could. I don't suppose she told you that."

 

Maybe he should be flattered.

 

"She was just a lead in a little workshop, sleeping with an important– I'm a terrible mother, aren't I? But it would be a very Marilyn thing to do, and we both know how the business works."

 

Maybe he should be offended.

 

"But I'm not even sorry."

 

He was offended. "I'd never cast an actress just because she slept with me." _Or didn't sleep with me,_ he mentally tagged. … Unless that was a lie.

 

"Because Ivy has never listened to me, not even when she was tiny enough to fit in my arm. She does what she thinks is right, for her."

 

The bottle was still half full, but he wasn't sure he could take much more.

 

Leigh's tone switched again, brisk now, drawing his attention against his will. "One thing I've never liked about directors – it's a very attractive thing but only in the studio – is how so few of you are ready to credit us mere actresses with abilities beyond our little jobs on stage."

 

Lips on Ivy's cheek when she could look at a mocked up stage and see more than he did. Stop. Drink. Stop.

 

"All that time on stage, I can see things. And I saw how you look at my daughter."

 

Passing on the stairs, walking legend, poised star.

 

"And what did you see?" Trying to humour her but he couldn't control his tone, it came out needy.

 

"I saw the reason you're sitting her talking to me instead of trying to get – what is it, The Hit List? - onto the Tony roster."

 

Hit List. Stop. "And what," Leigh was exhausting, no wonder Ivy fled, "is that?"

 

"You already know _what_. What you want to know is what I see when Ivy looks at _you_."

 

Loaded question. He shut his eyes. Voice flat like he didn't care. Wasn't losing it. "Alright. What should I do?" Judgment.

 

"'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.' If you don't know, you aren't a very good director after all."

 

The stage door had closed behind her before he realized she'd taken his scotch.

 


	6. Ivy

On the bright side cabs were willing to pick up a drunk who could pay at any time of day. On the down side, he wasn't sure even the traffic could keep him awake. He had the time, and walking kept him vertical. It wasn't far so he purposefully overshot, his own little uneventful odyssey through Hell's Kitchen.

 

"Derek?" Not where she ought to be, off her mark while he was off his.

 

"Hello."

 

"Are you okay?" He swayed closer when she put her hand on his arm, pulled a little and sniffed.

 

"Did you just sniff me?" A little incredulous.

 

She sighed, "come on," and towed him towards her front door. He followed, docile. It was always so easy to follow her. Until she let him go. He figured she'd push him down on the stoop, the railing was quite familiar and her hesitation indicated she was, really, until the midday crowd kept looking over.

 

She pushed him down on her couch instead, then disappeared, reappeared with water, aspirin, barefoot.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

It sounded less like interest than formality, but he answered anyway. "No one picked up Hit List. Doesn't matter why, it's dead in the water."

 

He could almost hear the roll of her eyes. "It means that much to you? There will be other shows, Derek."

 

It was hard to want something new when you weren't done with what you had. "I tried to call you, last night." Unfairly accusing. "You didn't pick up."

 

"I was tired." And she looked it, carefully masked by paints and fabrics and glossy finishing touches.

 

"An' I went home with Karen." He didn't know why he had to throw that at her, she'd never want to hear it and he never would have told her.

 

With precise, fluid steps, Ivy crossed the room and slapped him.

 

"I deserved that." It was even helpful, some of the fuzz gone from his brain.

 

She didn't even look angry, as she arranged herself in a chair. Just tired. "I guess... Thank you for telling me. And congratulations."

 

His eyebrows knit themselves. "For what?"

 

"She's who you've always wanted, isn't she? Not just Marilyn." The worn rasp in her voice was a double-edged whisper. "I know you'd already have been together if she hadn't turned you down- a couple days before you came to see me? Less?"

 

Truth was rough. "Earlier that day, I think-" It was easier to think when she wasn't moving, a little too fast for him track until she stopped, propping open her front door.

 

"I have a show tonight. It's time for you to go."

 

"Look." Even as he obediently pushed himself up, "I want to explain-"

 

"-I don't _want_ an explanation. I don't want to know."

 

Just outside the arc of worn rug he leaned against the wall, not quite going, not quite close enough.

 

"Whatever it is, whatever it was that makes you keep coming back every time I try to..." She bit her lip and shut her eyes and he wanted to gather her up in his arms until she changed her mind and shut the door and smiled and laughed.

 

"Karen isn't you."

 

"Because she turned you down. At least twice, that I know about." He supposed she might have turned him down before, if he'd asked.

 

"And how many times have you-" Just the once, he had to admit. Once, on her stoop, when he'd been- "- have you broken up with me?"

 

"You cheated on me," she hissed.

 

"That one time. And I- Every week you made it quite plain that you would be perfectly fine without me. You never called. And you don't want to be seen in public with me." Those things were all true, he was surprised to discover this fact. They would probably hurt if he probed.

 

"You always wanted Karen more."

 

"For Marilyn."

 

"You tried to sleep with her before me. Only she said no."

 

It took a moment to sort that one out. "I never asked her to. But you always knew who I was. You can't blame me for it now." Especially now, with his 'conquests' up in arms.

 

Ivy deflated. "I know. I don't."

 

He reached for her cheek, halfway away when she shrugged him off.

 

"It's fine, Derek. But I don't want to be some safe fallback just because I happen to like you. I don't want to be that woman."

 

"You aren't." He tipped his head back against the wall, all angles, hard and cold.

 

"Then what am I?" And it sounded like the last question, the one that meant all avenues are exhausted and the audience is silent, one shared indrawn breath for a line that... he couldn't say.

 

Not because he couldn't say it, not because he didn't think it was true, but because Ivy wasn't that simple, _they_ weren't that simple, and it wouldn't work. Oh, maybe for a while. Until she kicked him out again, and he was left wondering, again, where it all went wrong.

 

"Derek?" She shut the door, softly, crossed her arms instead.

 

"You're my Verdon." And that was scarier than the other thing. He crossed his arms too, trying to hold in the upset, prepare for the fight.

 

There wasn't one. Just Ivy, standing still arms crossed looking at him, he guessed, like her mother remembered. Waiting without particular hope or expectation for an explanation that wouldn't leave her with a little less faith.

 

"You are," he studied the ceiling and made mental check marks, "or were, possibly my only friend and certainly my best one." Territory they'd already covered, not too hard at all. "I might have seen Karen in my head _but_ ," he interrupted himself to forestall her objection but she didn't make a peep, "I can't control who I see in a part and I've never been able to do real work with her. Not on Bombshell, you saw what happened when I tried." He snuck a look, her eyes were shiny.

 

The next bit in monotone. He still couldn't explain it. Entirely. Not even to himself, whether it was the show or the girl, which came first... "Yes Hit List was better, all over, but the only times I managed to make anything of it where when I ignored Karen and pretended I was watching the show with you. And no, Karen was not happy with the result." Another glance down, a twitch of smile in return for the hoped-for one from her.

 

"And," the one he thought he'd been saying all along but if she didn't know or didn't care they couldn't pretend he hadn't said it.

 

Friends? Check. Partners/muse? Check. Family?

 

"You're the only one I want to be there when I go home. I want to see you. Talk to you. Every day," in case that wasn't obvious. "I don't want to walk around like a bloody idiot calling you wondering why you're mad at me." It was an odd image in his head, familiar and unfamiliar and _safe_ , but in a more dangerous way. "I want you to tell me, and then send me to the couch until you forgive me. Or the other way round, if you prefer." A progression, symbolic and real. Stoop to couch. Outside to in. Denied to withheld.

 

"Sleep it off, Derek." But she put her hand on his arm, not the door, pushed him towards the bed.

 

Quiet movement marked her progress around her apartment as he stripped just far enough to bury himself under her covers. Familiar sounds, the rustle of a dress, rush of a tap, click of heels and ding of a glass at the table by his head. He opened one eye: Ivy Lynn, changed and ready to leave.

 

"You'll be back later?"

 

And she looked tired and distracted and the mattress dipped under her hand but when she kissed him on the cheek it felt like a smile.

 

"Where else do I have to go?"

 

The last thing he wanted to say, but couldn't. Not because he couldn't but because it wasn't true. There were places he could be, spaces that were his. Even if it didn't feel that way.

 

Family. Check.

 

At least, something closer. In the end Fosse and Verdon weren't the best model anyway.

 

 


End file.
